


The Ghost

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Erik-friendly, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, Marital Issues, Raoul-friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7189418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of her will grieve until the end. A part of her will grieve because that part of her does not belong on this earth. Her soul is made up of ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> I do not own Phantom of the Opera and make no profit off of this work. 
> 
> This was posted from my phone, so any formatting mistakes will be corrected when I am in front of my computer later. Apologies for any grammatical errors.

“You’ve changed.”

It’s said with such simplicity, but when the teapot stills from pouring and Christine looks up at Raoul, his eyes betray the depth of his words.

She resumes pouring. “Everyone changes,” she says lightly, as she takes a lemon from the small bowl placed between them and squeezes the juice with thin, dainty fingers into her cup.

They are seated in her dressing room, door shut and locked to keep out the loudness of the everyday goings on of the Opera House. Here in this room there is a solace, a silence, and while Raoul is oftentimes grateful that he can find somewhere quiet in the otherwise chaotic world that is the opera, he’s often disturbed by just how _silent_ Christine’s dressing room seems nowadays.

His eyes slide from her fingers, busy squeezing another lemon, to her face where he takes a long moment to study her features. She’s young, still. A great beauty, though he knows he’s biased in that regard. Her blonde hair spirals out of control around her head like a halo, a light that shines purely around her and contradicts that haunted dark of her eyes.

Eyes that have seen far too much horror to remain innocent.

“True,” he concedes at last, pouring a small dab of cream into his own tea, “But you especially so.”

“I’m not a little girl singing folk tales by the sea anymore, Raoul.”

Again, Raoul has no choice but to concede her point. “It’s the little things,” he says at last, “That stick out the most.”

Christine has never been truly brash, and so she takes her time in contemplating her response. She’s had moments where impulse has taken over sense, but in moments like this she is calm, careful, and is always thoughtful before she speaks, as if she is reading a script just behind him, studying the words before she recites them with the talent that has made her so famous and beloved.

“Such as?” She asks, and the question is a challenge.

Nodding his head toward her tea, Raoul states, “You never take tea with lemon.”

“Of course I do,” Christine says simply, stirring her tea precisely three times before removing the spoon and taking a large sip to prove the point.

“You despised lemon when you were a child,” he remarks, musing on a past that was much simpler. There no ghosts lingered. “You always heaped sugar and cream into your tea. I remember my brother being quite put off by your penchant for hogging the sugar.”

At that Christine shivers, a tiny smile ghosting over her lips at the memory. “I find my tastes have changed,” she says in that light tone that she uses so often. “And cream and sugar are not good for my voice.”

Raoul does not doubt Christine’s intelligence. She was always an avid reader with a large imagination, and while she does not quite understand the logic of numbers the way he or his brother does - _did_ \- he knows that under that calm demure lies a mind that holds secrets and wisdom beyond his comprehension.

 _Her physical features are not the only attractive thing about her,_ Raoul reminds himself bitterly. He also reminds himself that her father had never cared for the conventional lessons of music tutors and had spoiled his daughter with sweets as often as he could afford them. He’d never have minded if her voice was a little flat as she danced around singing silly songs while he played an upbeat tune on his worn violin.

He knows she’s studied a great deal since, at the conservatory, but it’s these little remarks that remind him that her tutelage went far beyond the conventional.

“Did _he_ teach you that?” Raoul can’t resist asking, even as he knows it pains his wife to speak of such things to him.

She winces, as he expected she might, and that small flinch inwards is another reminder that even as the ghost has moved on, he left another in his place.

“Erik taught me a great many things.”

The sorrow in her voice speaks to days, weeks, months, _years_ of pain. Pain of loss, loneliness, confusion. The joy in finding her supposed angel; the regret of things going so wrong. The open wound that was his absence in her life, even as she’d chosen the world above and had offered the fallen angel her love as payment for her return from the underworld. Raoul knows that she has paid no small fee to sit where she is now, safe and successful, but not entirely whole.

Erik took a piece of her when he left, and Raoul has no choice but to accept that he is married to someone who left part of her heart in the bowels of the opera house.

“That was cruel of me,” Raoul admits when he sees the flicker that remains in Christine’s eyes dim further. Reaching out, he catches her hand, squeezes it assuringly. “I spoke out of turn.”

“You cannot help how you feel,” Christine says again, dismissive of his words. “And I suppose you are right. I have changed.”

***

Raoul has always found her beautiful. As a boy he’d thought her hair as lovely as a daisy’s, her eyes bright as the sun. Now as a grown man he thinks her even lovelier, her beauty almost ethereal as she practically floats down the hallways of the Opera House, eyes set ahead of her, determinedly not gazing about, looking for movement within the shadows.

She looks straight ahead because looking back is too painful.

He hates _him_ , Raoul thinks one day as he is walking with the managers as they discuss the upcoming performance. Christine has been contracted as the lead, a role she accepted with humility and grace, and now Firmin and Andre are talking about what a success the play shall be.

It’s in the middle of a debate over whether to have the press come for an early production that Raoul notices her, dressed in a simple dark purple gown with her hair tied back neatly with a matching ribbon, that it strikes him. She is standing proud, shoulders pushed back, chin up, breathing controlled with the ease that has come from years of such exercises. She looks ahead, and to anyone else it would appear that she is merely looking out over the empty seats at the invisible faces that will soon look upon her with awe and wonder, but Raoul can see the slight upward turn of her eyes, cast discreetly toward the empty Box Five.

Even after these ten months, six of which she’s been his wife, he still sees the sorrow she holds in her heart for the ghost that nearly destroyed them all. And as much as he loves his wife, he hates Erik more, because even now that the ghost has finally released her, he continues to hurt her, his shadow haunting her steps and smearing dark circles under her once bright eyes.

She turns her gaze then, sees him as he watches her, and offers a gentle smile. It is sweet and affectionate; the kind of smile he’s always dreamed his wife offering him. And even as he knows it’s genuine, even as he does not doubt his wife’s choice nor her devotion, he knows nothing he does will ever be enough to soothe the ache that has rubbed deep into her soul. And he hates everyone, himself included, who played a part in that cruelty.

Her cue starts and she opens her mouth to sing, giving her all even in the rehearsal, her voice an offering to an angel whose very blood and being is seeped into the walls.

Turning away, Raoul tells the gentlemen that they should invite the press, that he will cover any expenses necessary, and races out of the room, his wife’s voice following him like the very Phantom who gave her song life.

***

It’s the little things, Raoul thinks, that stand out the most. He’s told her so before, numerous times. Her tea preference is the most noticeable. He finds himself adding cream and sugar to his own cup to make up for the lack in hers. If she notices, she does not remark upon it.

She sings at all hours, too. Anyone else would attribute it to the fact that he’s married a _singer_ (a term used with only slight affection and more than a little distaste), but Raoul _knows_. She sings soft medleys that he can’t place. He is no aficionado, but he does know the popular tunes that she leaves bubbling in people’s minds. These songs are not those songs. These songs slide against the skin, leaving gooseflesh and uneasiness, in strict contrast with her voice, which is a thing of heaven- most of the papers agree. Soft and light, airy yet powerful when the need arises, Christine’s voice is a being all its own, one that sings hymns and hums dirges, and vocalizes notes that Raoul knows could not have come from anywhere than _below_.

When he questions her about it one day, interrupting her thoughts as she practises her needlework, she merely gives him that wide-eyed, innocent gaze that he can’t decide is genuine or not. “What do you mean? I wasn’t singing.”

He wants to laugh, but he contains himself. “Yes, you were,” he argues, “Just now. I heard you. That’s how I knew where to find you.”

“Oh,” she says, as if coming out of a trance. “I didn’t realize. Was I disruptive?”

 _Yes_ , he wants to answer. She disrupts the peace he fought so hard to win for them. But he can deny her nothing, so he merely shakes his head and steps up to her, bending down to press a kiss to her brow. “Of course not,” he whispers, “I merely was curious as to what you were singing.”

Christine shrugs, a wistful smile on her face. “Probably just making up a silly little tune.” She puts aside her needlework and takes his hands, leading him toward the pianoforte nearby. “Shall I play something you recognize?”

She plays, voice soft and fingers light against the instrument, and Raoul recalls a time when she’d confessed her inability to play anything. 

***

For a famous singer, Christine is as humble, gracious, and kind as ever. She has no diva-esque outbursts, and any issues she _does_ have, she takes them up with the managers, privately, calmly, and with a confidence that is almost alarming.

Raoul remembers a timid girl who cast her eyes downward to avoid unwanted attention. Now he sees a woman who does not seek the fame her ability has granted her, but accepts it with patience and grace, smiling primly as fans clamour for a moment of her time. She thanks her callers with soft, genuine words, and has the flowers given to her taken to the cemetery after each performance, to brighten up the otherwise somber city of the dead.

 _Is it a gift to those she loves,_ Raoul wonders, _or an offering of penance?_

Her fame stretches across Paris until soon they cannot go out for a walk or to supper without someone stopping them in their path to claim Madame Daae (as she insisted she be called) the purest and greatest talent to grace the stage. Once more, Christine accepts their praise like a queen, trained in the polite stoicism of which any true noble might be jealous. She is never false with her gratitude, but Raoul can see the difference in her smiles. She has one for every occasion, and he’s long since learned to tell them apart.

When a little boy runs up to her with a flower in hand to give to the ‘pretty singer I see in the papers’, her smile is new, refreshed, wide. She takes the flower, bends down to grant the small boy a kiss, and then tucks the flower in her hair, declaring that it is the loveliest flower she’s ever received.

The boy blushes, then his mother runs up, scolding him for his impertinence, and apologizes profusely for the interruption. When Christine assures the woman that the boy meant no harm and that he was probably the most genuine of her gentleman callers, the woman seems relieved, and takes her son’s hand and they move on, lost to the crowd that is forming near the market square.

Slipping her arm in her husband’s Christine gently pushes them forward. After several steps of silence, she muses aloud, “I think it should be quite lovely to have a child.”

Raoul startles at her brash words, but she is not looking at him and seems content to leave the thought behind her on the pathway.

She does not mention it again, and at length she returns to the opera house to prepare for the opening night. She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek then rushes off with that airy gait of hers to the seamstress who needs to ensure that the elaborate costume fits properly.

When she sings that night, she enraptures the entire audience. Raoul sits in the box _beside_ Box Five and after the show he hears remarks about how lovely it must be that his wife only have eyes for him as she sings. Raoul does not bother to tell them that her gaze lies elsewhere, in a world only she can see, while the rest of them remain blind.

When she is greeted by a group of well-wishers, she thanks them with the same polite genuineness, but there is an absence of thought beneath the surface, and though no one is the wiser, Raoul watches as she is all but distracted.

Her gaze lands just beyond the faces of the crowd, and she takes a sharp breath. Whirling around, Raoul looks in the direction she’d been focused on, disturbed and relieved all at once to find nothing in the hallway. When he looks back Christine is smiling at _him_ , a soft a subtle curvature of her lips, then she’s speaking to someone else and the moment is gone. Raoul feels a slight chill in the air, and moves to escort his wife to her dressing room for some privacy.

When he gets her alone, he presses a kiss to her hand- her face is covered in makeup that will smear if he’s not careful, and he’s had more than enough teasing from her to make that mistake once more. She offers him another smile, then turns to her vanity and begins to wipe the makeup from her face with a wet cloth that had been set out for her by one of the assistants.

“You seemed distracted,” Raoul comments as he lounges on the chaise across from her, watching her reflection in the mirror. Her brow piques.

“On stage?”

“No,” Raoul corrects, “After. It looked like you saw something. I was worried.”

Christine turns at that, half her face clean and the other half still made up from the performance. One side is porcelain white, with a round splotch of rouge on her cheek and a dark color smeared across her eyelid. The other side is more natural, her skin still somewhat pale even after countless days spent taking walks in the sunlight with him. She looks strange now, even as she moves to kneel in front of him. Taking her hands in his, she smiles up at him, the red half of her lips twitching in a grin that hints at mischief.

“My dear husband,” she coos, “Always so worried.”

“I have good reason,” he says, the words a little sharper on his tongue than he intended them to be. Christine pays his tone no mind.

“Raoul,” she whispers, “There are no ghosts roaming these halls. Not anymore.”

As with many of their conversations, she speaks with such simplicity, as if she holds some strange knowledge that only she is privy too. Secrets of the angels and the devil hide in her heart, thrum through her veins. She has seen that other world; she has lived there, partaken of its fruit and its song, and upon her is imparted the knowledge, the _assurance_ , that there are no ghosts left lingering with unfinished business.

But Raoul knows better.

He watches as Christine returns to her vanity to remove the rest of her stage makeup. When she is finished, she unpins her hair and spends quite some time brushing her hair to rid it of the tangles, absently humming a tune that Raoul knows was not in the opera. She’s pulled from that _other_ repertoire, the one that only she fathom, and the dressing room fills with a haunted lullaby that reminds Raoul that the opera house _is_ doomed to be haunted by ghosts. But whereas the former resident specter loomed in shadows, cloaked in threats and commands, the current ghost hides in plain sight, doused in the light of the center stage, voice raised to the heavens in a song he’ll never be able to sing with her.

 _The living, too, can haunt this place_ , Raoul thinks as he watches his wife. _Perhaps that is the cost of our freedom._

She insists on taking the flowers to the grave that night herself. Raoul detests the cemetery; finds no comfort in the stone pillars that make up the pathway in the city of the dead. But Christine finds comfort there, and Raoul is so in love that he will spend an hour in the chill of the night to help his wife deliver bouquets of expensive roses to the stones that lay empty and unvisited.

At length she moves to her father’s tomb and takes the last bouquet- a dozen fresh, red roses from a gentleman who came all the way from Wales to see her, and lays them at the foot of where her father sleeps eternally.

“Papa,” she whispers, voice trembling from the cold and the sorrow, “I hope you are proud.”

 _He is,_ Raoul thinks to himself, but he does not speak for Papa Daae, and he will not start now. But he knew the man, long ago. And Gustave had never been anything _but_ proud of his daughter. Raoul knows if she could speak to her father now, he would have nothing but praise for her: her triumph on the stage, the beautiful woman she’s become- _so much like your mother-_ Raoul thinks the man would say, though he does not know that for sure. Her father would tell her she made the right choice, and he would express concern over her terrible torment all those months ago when she was pursued by a demon who stole his voice.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, he nearly misses her last remark _. “Look after Erik for me.”_

She says it every time they come here, a gentle plea to the man who loved her the most selflessly to care for the man who loved her the most selfishly. Raoul thinks he lies somewhere in the middle of that, a happy medium that provides her with all that she wants and needs. He hopes she sees that. He hopes he shows that.

Turning away, Christine wipes her eyes, and steps to Raoul, arms sliding around his waist to hug him tightly, almost protectively. She has always been a protector, he thinks, even when he thought he was her savior, she had been his. And her own.

 _And Erik’s_.

“Come,” she whispers, small frame shivering in the cold. “The night air is not good for my voice.”

***

Christine's laugh is soft, gentle, but genuine. He has not heard her laugh with childish abandon since the day her scarf was pulled into the sea. So when he nears her dressing room after being out on business and catches the sound of a distinctly feminine _cackle_ , he feels a pang of remorse at failing to elicit such a sound from her, and a stab of jealousy in his gut at whoever has coaxed that sound from her throat.

He does not bother to knock, but merely enters the dressing room, stopping short to see the Persian sitting across from his wife, looking relaxed in a manner that Raoul is completely unfamiliar with. Before when their paths had crossed, the man had been uptight, rigid, full of concern and urgency. Now the lines on his face don’t appear so deep, and his smile is light and pleasant.

Christine is positively aglow with mirth. It is such a contrast from the woman to whom he’s married that he almost does not recognize her.

“Oh, Raoul!” She says, trying to calm herself. “I forgot you were coming, I am so sorry. Monsieur Khan stopped by to visit and we’ve been catching up. Come, sit! Pour yourself a cup.”

Before Raoul can answer, the Persian stands and extends a hand to him. “A pleasure, sir,” he says, accent thick and full of mystery, “Especially as we meet under less strenuous circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Raoul says, taking his hand, the polite thing to do even as he wants to demand why this man is here, making his wife laugh harder than he’s seen her since their reunion.

“Monsieur Khan and I were catching up,” she says fondly, “It has been far too long.”

“Indeed it has, Madame,” the Persian says with a nod of his head. “And perhaps we shall reconvene soon. I do not wish to keep your husband vying for your company.”

“Of course,” Christine says with affection. “We must do this again; and soon.”

“Then we shall,” he says, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles lightly before tucking his hands into his pockets. “Perhaps the same time next week?”

“That would be lovely,” Christine says, “I enjoyed our talk.”

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimes and Christine’s face goes from pleasant to distressed. “Oh dear, I will be late for rehearsal!” She says, rushing to grab her score with notes scribbled throughout. “Raoul, would you please see Monsieur Khan out? I hate to be so rude but I fear I have lost track of the time.”

Before he can answer, she is out the door, a flurry of skirts and blonde curls trailing behind her as she rushes down the hall to make it to the stage. In the now sudden overwhelming silence of the dressing room, Raoul turns to face the man who helped him hunt down his wife’s captor.

“I mean no offense, good sir, but I must ask: why are you here?”

The Daroga does not seem offended; instead he merely collects his hat and gloves, discarded on the chair behind them, and gestures for Raoul to lead them away. “She wrote to me, a few weeks ago,” the man confesses as they walk. “She wanted to talk.”

“About _him_.”

“You must understand,” The Daroga says gently, “Other than myself, she has no one who truly knows what he was like. And despite her sensibility, despite her understanding that she should not- she misses him.”

Such simple words, but to have his suspicions, his greatest fear realized, the words pierce his heart and he fears the pieces may spill out onto the floor before them. The Daroga, observant as ever, sees the wound rip open. “You must also understand,” he says, ceasing his steps to take Raoul by the arm, forcing the younger man to look at him, “You were not there. As much as you think you understand, as much as you think you know: you do not. Regardless of his lies, his manipulations, he was there for her when she needed him. She found solace in him, when her heart lay in shambles. And for all that it was selfish, he gave her her voice. That confident woman you wed, the woman who stands on that stage and lifts her voice to the heavens and brings the most serious and unromantic souls to their knees in wonder: that is the woman Erik saw before anyone else.”

“I cannot change my opinion on him,” Raoul says simply, and it’s true. There is too much bad blood; there is too much pain for him to see Erik as anything but a monster.

“And I do not ever expect you to,” The Daroga replies calmly, “But you must understand: what he is to you and what he is to your wife are not the same. You can not ask her to hate him anymore than she could ask you to love him.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Let her grieve,” The Daroga replies softly. “She is a kind soul, a loving soul. I do not think we should condemn her for doing something as good and pure as to love another.”

Raoul nods, silent as he hears the faint echo of his wife’s voice resonate through the halls, pure and light and powerful. His gaze turns in the direction of her song, letting it fill him with the beautiful sorrow that each note contains.

“Do you think a day will come when she will not grieve?” He does not ask because he is impatient. He asks because he does not think a spirit as sweet as Christine’s should have to suffer so much.

The Daroga shakes his head. “Her soul is made up of ghosts. I think a part of her will grieve until the end. A part of her will grieve because that part of her does not belong on this earth.”

“And she will never be at rest until she is made whole again,” Raoul says with understanding.

“She has spent her life entertaining angels,” The Daroga agrees, “Her soul longs with them to rest.”

“But until then,” Raoul says, determined, “I will help her see the beauty here.”

“Do,” The Persian agrees, “It will ease her suffering, if only a little.” He takes a step forward, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder to the Vicomte. “She loves you. Truly, she does. But she is not meant for this world.”

And then he is gone, his words wrapping around Raoul like a vice. He shakes them off, knowing they are true, but he refuses to be pulled under by their weight. With new understanding and determination, he turns and goes to find his wife.

She is looking forward, eyes raised to Box Five as she spills her heart onto the stage. And for the first time, Raoul feels no jealousy pluck his heartstrings. He cannot find it in him to be angry or hurt, for in this moment she is not his. On that stage, she belongs to the heavens, to the souls of the men who loved her and were stolen from her, and she offers her song to them as tribute to how they molded her.

On the stage, she is her father’s. And Erik’s.

The song ends, and her voice fades, and her gaze shifts to him. She smiles softly, sadly, and in that moment she descends from the ethereal void that music sweeps her into, and she is once more his wife.

He is in the wings, and when Monsieur Reyer gives her leave, she goes to him, dutiful and gentle and eyes offering love through pain. Ignoring the slight impropriety, he tugs her to him, holding her in his arms tightly. She returns the embrace, hands cold against his back.

“What’s gotten into you?” She says, voice lilting in confusion.

“I love you,” he whispers in her ear, then takes her hand to lead her back to her dressing room. “Come,” he says, “I’d like a cup of tea.” He calls for a fresh pot, and when it arrives he bats his wife’s hands away and pours her cup himself. He reaches over and plucks two lemons from the bowl and squeezes them into her tea, stirring it three times before setting the spoon aside and offering her the cup.

She takes it with a look of surprise, and the warmth of the drink brings some color back to her cheeks. Raoul watches as she drinks her tea, and finds himself oddly content. He will do as the Persian said, and let her grieve. But beyond that, he will love her. Broken, sorrowful, not-of-this-world Christine. He will love his wife, and she will love him. And when it is time to let her go, he will; he will willingly send her home with the piece of her heart that she once gave him in exchange for a red scarf and her soul will find its rest. Her spirit will find what it cannot touch here on earth, but has yearned for all the same. She will be free of the pain that the world bore down upon her. He will see her whole again, in the end.

But until that day, he will love her, the ghost of the girl he once knew who grew into a woman with eyes in the stars; an angel with no wings, reaching toward heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
